


Sometime Around Midnight

by menel



Category: Justified
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's Day is the worst holiday in the calendar. Or so Tim's always thought. But this  year, he actually has someone to spend it with. The problem is, that someone is Raylan Givens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afra_schatz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/gifts).



> Just a couple of notes as I try to ease myself back into the _Justified_ fandom: 
> 
> Firstly, this is a belated birthday gift for the awesome afra_schatz, whom _Justified_ has brought us back together again after what . . . a decade? That's _amazing_. Happy Birthday, love! 
> 
> Secondly, since afra_schatz's birthday is so close to Valentine's Day, I decided to make this a (now-belated) Valentine's fic as well. But be warned, there's no fluff to be found here. This is probably an anti-Valentine's fic. And a big THANK YOU has to go to dodger_sister for giving me prompts to work with. They were very inspirational!
> 
> Thirdly, there's no porn either if that's important to you. I wanted to write some smut, but it wouldn't come (pun completely intended). Instead of fighting it, I just let the story be. 
> 
> And if you got through all those notes, I hope you enjoy the fic! 
> 
> (I almost forgot. The title of the fic comes from the excellent song by The Airborne Toxic Event.)

Tim’s been thinking about it for a week now but there’s no way in hell he’ll admit that to anyone, _especially_ to Raylan. He loathes Valentine’s Day. For someone who’s been alone his whole life, Valentine’s is a reminder of just how alone he is, how he’s had to fend for himself since he left his abusive, homophobic, alcoholic father. There’s a difference, he reminds himself, between being alone and being lonely. Tim swears that he’s the former – being alone is a choice. But since he hooked up with Raylan – the closest thing he’s ever had to a normal relationship and by god, that says it _all_ – he’s starting to realize that he may have been a bit of the latter too. That disturbing epiphany was what started the whole Valentine’s conundrum for Tim because while he’s loathe to celebrate the holiday, it’s the first time in his life that he’s had someone to celebrate the holiday _with_ , so shouldn’t he celebrate it? Even a little? Of course that ‘someone’ just happens to be Raylan Givens and the cowboy doesn’t present easy answers to anything. 

Tim suspects that Raylan feels the same way that he does about Valentine’s. The cowboy doesn’t show much affection, so the idea of celebrating a holiday that publicly declares your affection for someone else wouldn’t be in his vocabulary. Except Tim starts thinking of the years that Raylan was married to Winona and they must’ve celebrated the holiday then, even if Winona was the one doing all the heavy lifting. That ruminating leads him to the string of leggy blonds that have draped themselves all over Raylan since he’s known the other Marshal and it occurs to him that, unlike his own experience with Valentine’s, Raylan’s probably _never_ spent a Valentine’s alone, whether he was in a serious relationship or not. The mere idea seems preposterous now. Raylan Givens _alone_ on Valentine’s? There was a better chance of hell freezing over. 

Tim’s heard of the paralysis of choice. He’d be experiencing it now when it comes to that blasted holiday that can no longer be named, except that he hasn’t even reached the element of ‘choice.’ It’s not about ‘choosing,’ which would imply that he had ‘options.’ No, he’s simply stalled at ‘paralysis.’ Worse, his thoughts weren’t helping Tim with his current predicament because they didn’t answer one simple question: What the fuck were _they_ going to do on Valentine’s?

* * * * *

In the end it doesn’t matter because Tim wakes up on Valentine’s Day handcuffed to a radiator in the storeroom of an out-of-the-way convenience store with Raylan in a similar position sitting opposite him, the only difference being that Raylan’s been handcuffed to something else. Tim can’t see what the object is but he presumes it’s just as large and immovable as his favorite radiator. The cowboy somehow looks comfortable on the floor, his hat low over his face, as though he were peacefully dozing. Trust Raylan to get a good night’s sleep in this mess while Tim’s got a nasty crick in his neck. Annoyed, he hits Raylan with his boot, probably a little harder than was necessary to get the other man’s attention.

“What?” Raylan grunts, but doesn’t look up. And yeah, that’s definitely a voice heavily inflected with sleep. Tim quietly seethes a little more. 

“I hear someone outside,” he says crabbily. “They’re probably here to open up.” 

“About godamn time,” Raylan agrees, finally shifting so that Tim can see his face. 

“You can do the honors of explaining what we’re doing here,” Tim says offhandedly. “Seeing as this has happened to you before, I defer to your experience.” 

Raylan takes the dig in stride. “And I thought the whole point of having a _partner_ ,” he returns smoothly, “is to stop shit like this from happening a second time. What happened to having my six?” 

“Oh, I got your six,” Tim replies. He’d be waving his hands around emphatically if he could. “It’s your nine, your twelve and your three that I missed.” 

Raylan’s prevented from answering by the storeroom door that swings open and the astonished look of the elderly gentlemen standing there. 

“Good morning, sir,” Raylan says instead and Tim mentally adds the polite removal of the cowboy hat that Raylan would have done if he were able. “Sorry for disturbing you at this hour, but my partner and I are in a bit of a bother. We’re federal U.S. Marshals . . .”

* * * * *

The last thing Tim needs is to have Art chewing them out back at the Marshal’s service, but that’s exactly what happens as he sits slumped in one of the chairs opposite Art’s desk later that morning. Raylan’s defiant attitude isn’t helping their case, but Tim’s too tired to join in their defense. He tunes out the two senior officers until an unsettling quiet descends on the room and he realizes that Art’s gaze is fixed squarely on him, his boss’s look informing Tim that he expects some kind of response. Tim lost the thread of the discussion a while back and he hazards a look in Raylan’s direction, hoping the cowboy will throw him a clue but Raylan’s looking at him as well, his expression mildly expectant. _Shit_ , Tim thinks. Raylan probably expects him to take his side on whatever was going on. Tim shrugs. He knows they’re fucked however things play out. Might as well go down with the ship, or in this case, the infuriating cowboy that happens to be his partner. No way did Tonto have it this bad.

“Whatever he said,” Tim finally tells Art, jerking a thumb in Raylan’s direction. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Raylan holding back a smile, while Art lets out an exasperated sigh. 

The chief looks like he wants to hold his head in his hands but that would mean admitting defeat and Art Mullen is not the type to admit defeat, at least, not in front of his own deputies. 

“It was a simple prison transport,” Art declares for what Tim can only guess must be the umpteenth time. Art sounds like if he repeats the phrase often enough he might be able to change the outcome by sheer force of will. 

Tim knows better. 

“We underestimated the little shit,” Raylan retorts. “We’ll have him back in Tramble before the end of the day.” 

“I’m still not over the part where a wimpy accountant managed to outsmart two of my deputies, you especially Gutterson,” Art adds, pointing a finger in Tim’s direction. “You’re supposed to be the one with the common sense.”

“Idiocy is contagious,” Tim replies without missing a beat. 

“So’s the happy trigger-finger apparently,” Art adds, glancing over the file again. Tim remembers the crazy gunfight through the woods before they hit the convenience store. 

“Nah,” Tim disagrees. “I already had that before I met him.” 

Art glowers at him but doesn’t say anything. 

Raylan leans forward in his chair. “We got some solid leads,” he tells their boss. “Lester may be a wimpy accountant, but he also doesn’t have many places to go. We got this, Art. Let us do our job.” 

Art’s got his suspicious look trained on Raylan now. It’s a look that wonders whether he should let the cowboy clean up his own mess. (Art almost always does because like everyone else, he has a tendency to indulge Raylan.) After several long seconds, he leans back in his chair and nods. 

“Get ‘im back to Tramble,” he states, eyeing them both one last time before returning his attention to the paperwork cluttering his desk. 

Tim knows a dismissal when he hears one. He stands up automatically, following Raylan out of Art’s office. When they’re no longer within earshot of their boss, Tim says, “You weren’t making that shit up about the leads, were you?” 

Raylan glances at him as he picks up the receiver of his desk phone. “What do you think?” he replies. 

_Fuck_ , Tim thinks. It was gonna be a long day.

* * * * *

For all the hazing he and Rachel did of Raylan when the cowboy first arrived, Tim still feels like the newbie at the office, not that anyone would ever suspect. Showing weakness or uncertainty isn’t part of Tim’s vocabulary. Plus, he’s fucking good at his job so the weakness or uncertainty was never there to begin with. But Raylan? Raylan is something else. The cowboy is fearless in a way that Tim thought only existed in the movies. It’s not that Raylan doesn’t have his insecurities – no way is Tim going to go there, the guy is one giant mess (not that _he_ can talk) – but when it comes to the job, Raylan has a single-minded focus that’s frightening. So when Raylan told Art that they’d have Lester back in Tramble by that evening, Tim wasn’t about to bet against his partner.

After a few quick calls, he and Raylan are out of the office following up on those ‘solid’ leads that had somehow materialized into actual leads. Things become a bit of a blur after that as they tend to in the warped gravitational field that Raylan attracts around himself. As the sidekick, Tim isn’t all that surprised to be traipsing around the Kentucky countryside trying not to get shot while getting into all sorts of trouble. His tentative assessment of a long day ahead is – as usual – spot on. 

They start by staking out a camper in the woods that belongs to Lester’s ex-boyfriend who also happens to be a minor drug dealer. While Lester doesn’t turn up there, a quick drug bust points them in the direction of a ‘bunny ranch’ even further out in the boondocks where the embittered ex-boyfriend says Lester now has a taste for pussy. 

Lester isn’t at the bunny ranch either but one of the whores that he’s sweet on takes a liking to Raylan ( _Of course_ , Tim thinks with an accompanying mental eye roll) and volunteers some valuable information, namely that Lester had contacted her and asked her for a ‘favor.’ That favor consisted of emptying out a safety deposit box at a bank that Lester had opened in her name. Said safety deposit box supposedly contained Lester’s ‘insurance policy.’ Tim and Raylan don’t give a shit about the ‘insurance policy’ so long as it leads them to Lester, which, in the end, is what it does. 

The two of them keep an eye on Ruth as she goes to the bank, even though Ruth is fully cooperating with them. Apparently, she’s not as fond of Lester as he is of her. Could be that she’s also developed a sudden and massive crush on the Deputy U.S. Marshal in the cowboy hat, but Tim pushes that thought aside. He’s irritated enough that the thought irritates him, and when he sees Raylan play on the girl’s affection to get the job done, he’s irritated even more. Tim knows first hand what a manipulative bastard Raylan can be and this poor girl doesn’t stand a chance against the cowboy’s charm. In truth, Tim doesn’t know what’s worse – watching Raylan work the girl over like putty in his hands or watching her wave her pretty little ass in his direction. He doesn’t consider himself to be the possessive type (and the idea of ‘possessing’ Raylan in any way is completely absurd), but he also hasn’t forgotten that it’s Valentine’s Day and . . . well, Tim doesn’t finish the thought. It wouldn’t lead anywhere good anyway. 

Tim doesn’t have to watch Ruth for long, however, since she leads them to a small cabin in the woods ( _Why is it always the woods?_ Tim wonders) where Lester had instructed her to meet him after the bank. They fall into a stakeout pattern. By late afternoon, Lester turns up with the same buddies that busted him out of the custody of the Marshal’s service the day before. There’s another shootout (naturally) and somewhere along the line Tim falls into a ditch, gets chased by a mad-as-hell 200-pound wild boar ( _fucking Kentucky!_ ) and almost gets a tusk in the ass for his trouble. 

“You’re lucky it was a single pig,” Raylan would tell him later. “They tend to run in herds.” 

Tim shakes his head in utter disbelief. “Why would you even know that?” he asks, stretching his sore legs and trying to ignore the twinge in his butt. 

Raylan shrugs, looking cool and collected as ever, while Tim is a godamn bruised and muddy mess. “Feral swine have always roamed the isolated parts of the countryside,” he explains. “The Department of Fish and Wildlife Resources says that there’s been a notable increase of wild hog in areas they’ve not seen before since 2008.” 

Tim walks away after that. No way is he going to take the indignity of Raylan quoting fucking statistics at him from the Kentucky Department of Fish and Wildlife Resources on feral swine. 

By 8:00pm, Lester’s paperwork is back in order and he’s ready to be transported back to Tramble. Art tells them that they can keep Lester in a holding cell overnight and bring him to Tramble in the morning, but Raylan is adamant about finishing the job _that night_. Art knows better than to argue and replies with a “Suit yourself” shrug. 

“Give Leslie my best,” Raylan calls after him. 

Art throws him a murderous look as he leaves the office. Tim has never met Leslie, Art’s wife, but he knows that once upon a time in Glynco, Art, Leslie, Raylan and Winona used to have Sunday barbecues together. He also knows that Leslie has already called the office three times, and their boss became progressively more agitated with each call. Tim suspects that all of Leslie’s Valentine’s Day plans have been shot to hell thanks to Lester Dukes and he feels for her. At least, she _had_ Valentine’s plans, Tim thinks listlessly. 

“You don’t have to come with me,” Raylan is saying, drawing Tim out of his thoughts. “It’s a two-hour drive to Tramble and a two-hour drive back. You look like you could use some rest.” 

Tim is offended all five ways to Sunday. He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s not some kid that needs babying or looking after. _Fucking rest?!!_ he wants to yell. He’s Raylan’s godamn _partner_ (in more ways than one, his mind nags) and after all the shit Lester has put them through for the past 48 hours, there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Raylan bring the asshole to Tramble alone. 

He fixes Raylan with his hardest glare – the one that would freeze hell – and snarls, “Let’s get this shit done,” before stalking out of the office. He doesn’t look behind him to see if Raylan follows.

* * * * *

The drive to Tramble is mercifully peaceful. Raylan’s right about Tim’s exhaustion but Tim doesn’t let on. He sits slumped in the front seat, still a bit of a mess from his run-in at the cabin. He was able to change into the spare set of clothes that he keeps in his locker at the office, but what he’d give for a nice hot bath. He feels icky, although discomfort in the field is something he’s been used to since his time in basic.

This day definitely qualifies as Tim’s worst Valentine’s Day ever but in the grand scheme of things, it’s just another day on the job and that secretly makes him smile. All that worrying he’d put into celebrating Valentine’s Day only for the day itself to turn out like this. It makes perfect sense. He’s in on the cosmic joke. Valentine’s Day with Raylan Givens would be just like any other day because that’s the way things are between them. In fact, Raylan hasn’t acknowledged the holiday at all, with the exception of his parting jab at Art to give Leslie ‘his best.’ Tim prefers it this way. It would be too weird for Raylan to wine and dine him as if he were one of Raylan’s lonely-hearts bimbos. And he’s terrible with romantic gestures himself so . . . yeah. It’s all worked out for the best. 

By the time they get to Tramble, it’s a little past ten o’clock. (They’ll be lucky to get back to Lexington before midnight. Tim’s thinking more like quarter to one.) Lester fell asleep during the drive and Tim has to haul his ass out of Raylan’s town car. The guy at receiving is shocked to see them and Tim can’t blame him. 

“You Marshals working overtime?” he asks good-naturedly, as he processes the paperwork. 

“Something like that,” Tim answers, watching Raylan wander down the corridor and out of earshot. The cowboy said something about having to make a phone call and Tim idly wonders whom Raylan would be calling at this hour. 

“Bet the Missus isn’t too pleased,” the corrections officer continues. “It being Valentine’s Day and all.” 

Tim holds up an unadorned ring finger and the other man nods. 

“Ah,” he notes. “Girlfriend, then?” 

“Nothing that serious,” Tim answers. It’s _mostly_ true. 

The corrections officer laughs. “Low maintenance,” he states. “Seems like you don’t get too many of those anymore.” 

“Very low maintenance,” Tim agrees, as Raylan reappears beside him. 

“We about done here?” the cowboy asks. 

“Yes, sir,” the corrections officer answers. “Everything’s in order.” 

“Well then, Lester,” Raylan says, turning to a scowling Lester Dukes. “You play nice now.” 

Lester blithely gives Raylan the finger before being herded away by two prison guards. 

“Ready to get out of here?” Raylan asks Tim. 

“Hell, yes,” Tim replies with a sigh of relief. The idea of a hot bath and a comfortable bed is looking more and more appealing to him. He doesn’t even care if Raylan stays with him that night. Now that the job’s done, he just wants to go _home_. 

Then his stomach grumbles. Loudly. 

“Think we can stop somewhere for a bite to eat on the way back?” he suggests as they turn away from the receiving area. 

“Yeah, I know a place,” Raylan tells him. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Marshals,” the corrections officer calls after them with a little wave. 

Studiously avoiding Raylan’s gaze, Tim turns around and gives the man a smile and a half-wave of his own. The guy was nice enough and Tim wouldn’t want the graveyard shift in his position. He never even asked if the man was married. 

Raylan doesn’t acknowledge the farewell and Tim falls into step beside his partner as they leave Tramble.

* * * * *

Tim doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up. Without Lester in the backseat and no appearances to maintain, he finds himself dozing off. He’s a bit disoriented at first, but quickly realizes that the car’s engine is off and they’ve parked somewhere. He hopes they might be back at Lexington until he remembers that he asked Raylan to stop somewhere to eat. He expects it to be one of those 24-hour diners and he’s shocked when he finally gets out of the car.

“Where the hell are we?” he asks, looking at what appears to be a well-lit luxurious three-story ranch style lodge in the middle of nowhere. 

“They call this place The Rustic Inn,” Raylan says, locking the town car. “But there ain’t nothing rustic about it except appearance. This place is as modern as they come.” 

“Yeah? And what are we doing here?” 

“We’re here for the prime rib. You said you were hungry,” Raylan reminds him. 

Tim’s stomach reminds him that he’s hungry too by taking that moment to rumble. 

“Or you might want to wash up first,” Raylan suggests as they head for the entrance. “We can have the steaks delivered as room service.” 

“Room service?” Tim repeats dumbly as the words sink in. He stops walking. 

Raylan’s already halfway up the steps to the entrance before he notices that Tim isn’t beside him. He stops too and half turns to look at Tim. 

“Art’s not expecting us until tomorrow afternoon,” Raylan informs him casually. “I filed some paperwork before we left to give us the morning off.” He lifts the cowboy hat slightly and Tim gets a better look at his face. Tim isn’t all that surprised that Raylan’s still wearing that hat in the dead of night. 

“We’re staying here tonight?” Tim asks, trying to put two and two together and not get five. 

“I know it’s been a helluva long day,” Raylan says, a bit too gently for Tim’s comfort. “But you think you can make it up to the room before you crash?” 

It hits Tim all at once what’s going on. This is Raylan’s big romantic gesture, his one concession to the holiday that he hasn’t acknowledged the entire day. Technically, the clock hasn’t struck midnight so it still _is_ Valentine’s Day. Tim’s not sure how Raylan planned this, much less _when_ he planned it. Raylan’s many things but all seeing isn’t one of them. He couldn’t have known that Lester would take up all their time, that they’d be on their way to Tramble that night. It occurs to him then, that the mysterious phone call Raylan made at the prison was probably to this place, to reserve a room or whatever else Raylan had in mind. Tim’s floored by the gesture. He’d given up on Valentine’s Day completely. 

“Tim?” 

Tim looks up to see Raylan standing in front him. The cowboy had walked down the steps to where Tim seemed rooted to the spot. 

“You okay?” 

Tim’s better than okay. He feels oddly revived given the fatigue that had overcome him not too long ago. He wants to thank Raylan but that doesn’t seem appropriate. He’d wish him Happy Valentine’s but that seems even more hopelessly awkward. 

“Yeah,” he says instead. “Just tired is all.” 

“Let’s get you upstairs then.”

* * * * *

“Not that I’m complaining,” Tim says, looking around the suite (it’s an honest-to-god _suite_ ). “But isn’t this going a little overboard?”

“It’s all that was available at such short notice,” Raylan supplies. 

“The _Honeymoon Suite?_ ” 

Raylan doesn’t dignify the comment with a reply. 

“Raylan, you didn’t –” 

“I didn’t,” Raylan cuts him off. 

“ _Raylan_ . . .” 

“It’s a _personal_ expense,” Raylan says with some exasperation. At Tim’s still unconvinced look, Raylan throws up his hands and adds, “How the hell would we explain the Honeymoon Suite to Art?” 

“I’m sure you could think of something,” Tim tells him dryly. 

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.” 

“It’s not.” 

“Oh, go wash up.” 

Tim hides his grin as he goes to inspect the spacious bathroom. “You gonna join me?” he calls over his shoulder. 

“We’ll see,” is Raylan’s reply.

* * * * *

Tim’s favorite part of the lavish suite is far and away the luxurious bathroom. It feels like the size of a Roman bath and its simple and elegant design certainly mirrors the elegance of ancient Rome. He submerges himself in the rectangular tiled tub in the center of the room that’s large enough to fit four people. It has a Jacuzzi function, which he turns on and then dumps a healthy dose of the complimentary bubble bath. Decadence is something Tim doesn’t indulge in, but fuck it. He’s had a hell of a day and he’s going to take full advantage of everything the suite has to offer.

Raylan wanders in at some point and though he doesn’t say anything, amusement is plainly written all over his face as he sits on the wide ledge of the tub. 

“Shut up,” Tim says, circumventing anything the cowboy might say. “You gonna join me or what?” 

“Nah, you deserve to have the tub to yourself.” 

“There’s plenty of room,” Tim encourages, but Raylan only shakes his head. Tim is only mildly disappointed. He’s also tempted to simply pull Raylan in with him, clothes and all, but he refrains. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Raylan warns him, standing up. “You’ll turn into a prune.” 

“Too hungry to fall asleep,” Tim admits. 

“I’ll order room service then?” 

“What time is it?” 

“Sometime around midnight.” 

“A steak at this hour would be crazy.” 

“I take it that’s a ‘yes’?” 

“You bet.”

* * * * *

Despite his hunger, Tim does doze off but it isn’t for long because the water massaging his body is still warm when he wakes up. Or maybe the Jacuzzi function is supposed to keep the water warm? Tim isn’t sure. He notices that he’s a bit wrinkled as he rinses himself off, but not quite the prune that Raylan had warned him about turning into.

He has no desire to get back into his dirty clothes, so he uses one of the lodge’s soft terry towel white robes. An idea comes to him as he’s tying his robe and he gathers his dirty clothes, pulling out the second terry towel robe before he goes outside. 

In the bedroom, Raylan is sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, bootless and sockless on one half of the giant bed. He’s eating a chicken drumstick. 

“What happened to the steak?” Tim asks. 

“It’s over there,” Raylan replies, gesturing towards a small delivery table courtesy of room service. “You got good timing,” he adds. “The food arrived less than five minutes ago. I was just about to go in and wake you.” 

“After you finished that drumstick?”

“They have pretty good spicy fried chicken here too,” Raylan comments. 

“You and your fried chicken,” Tim retorts, but his voice is full of affection. “Here,” he says after a moment, tossing the spare white robe at Raylan. “Strip.” 

Raylan gives him an inquiring look but doesn’t budge. 

“Laundry.” Tim states the word as though it were self-explanatory. “I’m gonna have my clothes done so you might as well have yours done as well. I want to change into clean clothes in the morning.” 

Raylan puts the drumstick down on the plate of fried chicken that’s beside him on the bed. “Y’know,” he says. “There are easier ways to get my clothes off.” 

“Oh, believe me. I _know_.” Tim gives his partner a filthy once over before padding to the room service table. “You should’ve joined me in the bath,” he says over shoulder. 

“You and your hygiene,” Raylan retorts, but Tim can hear the smile in his voice even without turning around. 

He realizes, as soon as he opens the silver-domed container covering his steak, how completely famished he is. The steak looks and smells perfect – medium rare and juicy, served with a side of slow-roasted potatoes and buttered vegetables. He pushes the delivery table over to Raylan’s side of the bed and pulls out the chair from the desk to sit beside him before digging into the meal. Tim’s halfway through the steak before Raylan asks him for his verdict. 

“What kind of cowboy doesn’t know his meat?” is as much of a compliment as Tim can muster. 

“Or his fried chicken,” Raylan adds, waving the last drumstick around. 

Tim grins. He’s ridiculously content and he can tell that Raylan is pleased too. They eat the rest of their meal in companionable silence, the low buzz of a late, late talk show on television their only other company in the room. At some point, a person from housekeeping arrives to collect the laundry. (Raylan had made the call since Tim actually forgot once he started eating.) 

Silence, Tim reflected, was the norm between them but it wasn’t an uncomfortable type of silence. Neither one of them were big talkers, barring the snark that they regularly threw each other’s way, especially when they were on the job. Stakeouts were a true test of character for him, a make-it or break-it moment for any potential partner. Stakeouts with Raylan had been easy from the start. The cowboy shared the same ethos as him: keep quiet, keep to yourself, respect the other person’s space, and don’t piss the other person off. Key to this harmony was the notion of silence and Raylan (to Tim’s own surprise) was comfortable with silence. Not just silence, but solitude. You could be with Raylan and still be alone. Tim could appreciate, even admire that. It was something he cultivated himself. He wasn’t big on relationships; friendships were few and far between; and social interaction as a whole was rather trying when not in an official capacity. Of course, the key difference between them was that although they were both intensely private people, Raylan attracted others (and the _trouble_ that came with them) like nobody’s business. Tim had never seen anything like it. Raylan’s life was a constant whirlwind of activity, of crazy relations and kin pulling him down into their nefarious world and the cowboy was just trying to stay afloat. Tim knows that Raylan is bad news; that the longer he stays with him, whether it’s for professional or personal reasons, the greater his chances are of being sucked into the same kind of craziness or worse. He doesn’t think about that though, since denial is his greatest art form. 

“I’m too tired to fool around,” Tim states when they’re both finished eating. 

Raylan gives him a sideways glance. “There’s always tomorrow morning.” 

Tim shakes his head. “Ever the optimist,” he replies, even as he knows the statement is perfectly true. Lazy morning sex has become a habit with them, especially on the weekends. He stands up, puts Raylan’s empty plate on the delivery table before pushing it back to its original place and returning the desk chair. Then he wanders back to the bed and says, “Move over.” 

Raylan obliges. The bed is ginormous. Technically the other half should be Tim’s and it’s still completely untouched. But Tim craves the warmth that Raylan’s body heat has left behind and he takes off his robe before slipping under the covers. 

Strictly speaking, Valentine’s Day has passed and neither one of them has even acknowledged the holiday. Tim thinks about saying it – “Happy Valentine’s Day.” How hard could three little words be? It’s not like he’s saying those _other_ three little words. But Tim is just as emotionally constipated as Raylan Givens so he settles for a sleepy, “Good night, Raylan.” 

“Good night, Tim.”

* * * * *

Military training is hard to break and Tim was already an early riser before he even went through Basic Training. His internal body clock wakes him at six o’clock sharp even though he went to bed sometime after two in the morning. The room is still dark and will remain so judging by the heavy curtains covering the large windows on the left side of the bedroom. Sleeping in is against his nature unless he’s nursing a bad hangover, but he tries. He rolls over and burrows a bit into Raylan’s warmth. The other man adjusts to his actions but doesn’t wake. Raylan is a deep sleeper. It’s not the first time Tim is thankful for that fact as he throws an arm around Raylan’s chest and settles in. This is dangerously close to cuddling and they obviously don’t do that. Tim shuts his eyes. Maybe he could doze for a little.

The second time Tim wakes, it’s to the gentle pressure of Raylan rubbing circles on his back. 

“Christ, what time is it?” he groans. There are definitely streaks of sunlight filtering through the cracks in the curtains. 

“Think it’s a little after nine,” Raylan answers. 

“You’re kidding me.” 

“If we can drag our asses downstairs, breakfast’s until ten,” Raylan goes on. “But I’m thinking we should just go for room service.” 

“We’re in the Honeymoon Suite,” Tim says dryly. “Management wouldn’t expect anything less.” 

The remark gets a laugh out of Raylan and he nods in agreement. Tim’s well aware that they’re having a ‘moment.’ Raylan doesn’t normally show physical affection (because sex doesn’t count), but he let Tim sleep virtually wrapped around him and even returned the gesture if the arm around Tim’s back is any indication. 

“So, why you’d do it?” Tim asks, his brain not fully functioning yet. 

“Do what?” 

“This. The room.” Raylan’s hand stills on his back and Tim feels the pressure to continue. “I mean, I thought about it some, whether we should do anything. But I didn’t plan anything and then yesterday was just . . .” he trails off. “It was a bit much even by our standards.” 

“I particularly liked the bit where you fell into a ditch because you were chased by a feral pig in the middle of a gunfight.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Tim says, hitting Raylan on the chest. “It’s called ‘karma’ and one day you’re going to be the one tumbling into a ditch.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Raylan agrees. “Maybe next Valentine's?” he suggests and Tim feels a weight ease off of him at that damn word finally being said. It takes him a moment to realize that Raylan’s just implied that there might be another Valentine’s for them in the future. It makes him feel warm inside. 

They don’t talk about the future. 

“I didn’t plan anything either,” Raylan says after a pause. “I mean, if that’s what you’re asking. I dunno. I remembered this place when we were near Tramble. Arlo brought Aunt Helen here once. She thought it was the biggest romantic gesture he ever made. ‘Course this being Arlo, he was actually here on some kind of drug deal, trying to find a new route for the drugs into Harlan County and riding the dime of the criminals he was teaming up with but Aunt Helen only found that out later.” 

Tim doesn’t know what to make of that. This place actually has connections to Raylan’s _family_. Not for the first time, Tim’s reminded that Raylan’s roots in Kentucky run _deep_. He clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “It still is kinda romantic.” 

“I have my moments,” Raylan replies and Tim can hear the smile in his voice again. “Now that you’re up, you want to break in this bed or what?” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “The one time I sleep in,” he begins but Raylan cuts him off with a filthy kiss. 

“We’re breaking in that bath tub as well,” Tim notes, as Raylan eases him on top so that he’s straddling the other man’s waist. Tim’s dick is already showing interest and he can feel a matching hardness against his ass. Raylan has certain preferences and having Tim ride him is one of them. 

“Yeah?” 

Raylan’s reaching for the lube and condoms that he’s no doubt stashed in one of the drawers of the bedside table. This is the one area where the cowboy’s _always_ prepared. 

“Yeah,” Tim emphasizes, running his hands down Raylan’s chest and leaning over him predatorily. “It’s where I’m going to fuck you raw.” 

“Let’s get to it then.” 

Raylan slicks himself up and then stretches Tim. All the while, Tim is stroking himself lazily, pushing down on Raylan’s fingers as they probe inside him. Raylan finds his spot with practiced ease and Tim lets out a low moan at the first jolt of electricity that hits his spine. When he’s finally ready, he holds Raylan’s cock in a firm grip and makes eye contact with the other man, just before he’s about to impale himself. 

“Happy fucking Valentine’s Day, Raylan.” 

Raylan smiles, surging forward to grab the back of Tim’s head, whispering directly into Tim’s mouth as Tim feels the burn and stretch of Raylan’s cock filling him. 

“You too, Tim. You too.” 

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

>  _Justified_ belongs to FX, Graham Yost and Elmore Leonard. No offense is intended, no profit is being made.


End file.
